||[Jul. 25th, 2009|04:30 am]
Winning Best Playwright, and, Best Overall Production (shared with my director and fabulous cast, fabulous in more than one way) for S+S 2009 was brilliant, of course. K declared us as the true underdogs and the email from the festival coordinator today with the percentages of votes and detailed results from each week, left us in no statistical doubt about that. We had the lowest percentage of audience and judges votes out of all the plays at the galas, but we emerged the slumdick millionaires. In any case, the prizes are absolutely non-monetary. Just free tickets to various plays, an Arts House membership (worth $88), free passes to all museums (which we already have by the way, thanks to most of us but one, having an undergrad status).|
So that's the good bit. The life bit? It says to forget the small victories. Yes, this is a big victory in some ways, a debut performance sweeping the awards. But in the larger context of things, this is nothing but a small victory. We are still small fry, always liable to be fucked up by people higher in authority than us. I've done this arts thing for 4 years, but I can't always be proud of my accomplishments which are only deemed so due to my age (not even 21), and these are not particularly dazzling achievements.
Paul Arden advises never to forget our own ego, that so inspires us to focus on ourselves, but I do also prefer to forget the small victories.
The night after most of my cast and myself got drunk in various degrees (from being wasted to slut to high) and slurring about how unexpected and surreal our winning was, I went back to the arcade to work, serving benglets, little bengs. Then I was back at the esplanade, but while we were victors on stage two nights previously, I was then there dressed like a robber, all in black, crewing and huffing and puffing unglamorously and carting furniture to the studios and ironing clothes for actors. No one knows and cares about these small victories, honey. Most of the time, I just feel like I'm living some sort of a triple life, with mostly failures, loads of adventures, and a singular victory.
The worst thing is how I manage to keep a whole lot of pent-up frustration within myself, because emotional as I am, I do not physically rage outwardly, except verbally on the phone. Now that the holiday that I was so looking forward to has just been made impossible, and that dreaded email from a professor came, I just don't want to sleep anymore.
If I could stay awake, perhaps everything will just die like a monster aging away. But when I sleep, it rears up like a nightmare and I lie in bed immobile the next morning, dreading every ray of sunshine, every reminder that my heart pumps for nothing but my incompetence.
/add: So I just recall that I have a rehearsal in five hours, a casting reading. Do I want to do this? Yes. Do I want to go out? No.